


Blast from the Past

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [103]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, any/any, sex on fire (kings of leon)". John Sheppard's past comes back to bite him, and he responds by playing with fire.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Mafia AU I never intended to write.

John Sheppard knew his past had come back to bite him in the ass as soon as he met his new second-in-command. He’d just returned to Atlantis from Earth, had dealt with the promotion ceremony that was both back-handed compliment and warning: we’re watching you. And then he’d gotten the news that he was being given a major as his 2IC. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. That was the SGC’s unsubtle way of telling him to give up on Aiden Ford, that they were sending one of their poster boys to keep an eye on him. So John avoided him for the entire trip back to Atlantis on _The Daedalus_.  
  
Elizabeth finally managed to corner him and pin him in place long enough to summon the new 2IC, and John really, really wished he could be more insubordinate and walk out of the room.  
  
And then Elizabeth’s office door opened and the man who stepped in was - Bluebell. Evan.  
  
Recognition flared in the man’s eyes, but his expression remained professionally polite.  
  
“Lieutenant-Colonel John Sheppard, this is Major Evan Lorne.”  
  
Evan offered a hand. “It’s an honor to be serving with you, sir.” He sounded perfectly sincere.  
  
John’s handshake was brief and bordering on rude, judging by Elizabeth’s disapproving expression. “You too, Major.”  
  
“You two should take a moment, get to know each other -”  
  
John knew Evan already. In the Biblical sense. Had done it several times, when they were sixteen, in the back of John’s Dodge Challenger in the parking lot of an upscale bar in Boston.  
  
John ducked his head. “Apologies, Doctor, Major; Rodney calls.” And he was out of Elizabeth’s office in a flash.  
  
No one knew John Sheppard was one of the Boston Sheppards, whose family had ruled a good portion of South Boston since they’d emigrated from Ireland during the great Potato Famine. Everyone assumed John simply had bad relationships with his family, and he never talked about them. No one knew John had fled from them to save his own life.  
  
He’d grown up wealthy and privileged, gone to the best schools, ate at the finest restaurants, driven the finest cars. He’d learned to use a gun when he was eight, watched his father torture a man when he was ten, and knew that one day the Sheppard street empire would be his. When he was fourteen, his father sat him down and explained all he’d have to do to become the next king. Graduate from high school at the top of his class. Go on to Harvard, get his JD MBA. Become CEO of his own portion of the business, and then bide his time till it was time to ascend to the throne.  
  
John didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of it. And he started to plot an escape.  
  
When he was sixteen, another Irish family had come calling, the Flanigans. A couple of their boys had stolen some money and gone on the run. Some of Father’s men had found them, picked them up. The Sheppards could keep the cash if they turned the boys over for questioning. Henry Flanigan was a small, unimpressive man, with dark hair and beady eyes, and he’d only brought with him three people - two enforcers, and a single teenage boy they all called Bluebell, because of his blue eyes.  
  
During the negotiations and drinking, the friendly insulting and arguing, John saw in Bluebell’s eyes the same emptiness he saw in his own when he looked in the mirror. Bluebell wanted out. And so did John.  
  
Bluebell’s real name was Evan, he explained, while they sat in John’s car smoking filched cigarettes and sipping pilfered whiskey. He wasn’t a Flanigan by birth, but he was good with his hands, was an artist. Could boost a car in a heartbeat, could forge papers like it was a walk in the park. He described in dreamy tones how he’d take John’s car.  
  
“Put your money where your mouth is,” John said, feeling daring. “Take my car.”  
  
Evan put his mouth on John’s, and that was that.  
  
They never saw each other again.  
  
But Evan was from California, and when John graduated from high school, he ran to California. Stanford. Signed up for the Air Force ROTC and never looked back.  
  
And now his past had come back to stare him in the face.  
  
He was in the communal showers two days later, after the encounter with Ronon and the failure to retrieve Ford, when Lorne came in. Lorne was about as tall as John remembered, but much broader across the shoulders. And he had tattoos John hadn’t seen before. Lorne barely glanced at him, just stripped off his clothes and stepped under the spray.  
  
No hand motion, no blue light. Lorne was a natural gene carrier, then.  
  
“Major,” John said, slowing his scrubbing, “I know you recognize me.”  
  
“Sir,” Lorne said politely. He’d been nothing but polite and deferential every time John ran into him.  
  
“You cannot tell anyone that we know each other.” John kept his voice low but firm. “You cannot tell anyone how we know each other. You cannot -”  
  
“I can keep secrets better than you can, sir.”  
  
John raised his eyebrows. Evan’s gaze was heated. And John said, without thinking, “Put your money where your mouth is.”  
  
Evan said, “With all due respect, sir, make me.”  
  
John stepped closer to him, reached up, cupped a hand around his jaw. Evan ducked away from his touch, grinning. Water poured over his head, sluiced down his chest, made his eyelashes spiky and his eyes bright. What followed was part wrestling match, part foreplay.  
  
John prevailed, though he suspected Evan let him, and he had Evan pinned up against the wall, arms locked around his throat in a chokehold but not cutting off his air.  
  
“This is me,” John said, “making you.” He loosened his grip, curled his hand around Evan’s chin, tipped his head to the side, and leaned in, tasted his throat.  
  
Evan exhaled sharply, and John slid his other hand lower, dragged his thumb over one nipple, and Evan’s hips rolled.  
  
“You like that, Major?”  
  
Evan said, “Please, sir, may I have some more?”  
  
John dragged his teeth over the sensitive flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder, grinned against wet-warm skin when Evan’s chest heaved. He kept nibbling, kept his wrist across Evan’s throat and, while he still had some measure of coherence left, sent a mental command to Atlantis to lock the door. He traced down Evan’s torso, admired the lines of muscles, and yes, perfect, Evan’s cock was fat and hard when he closed a hand around it. John stroked once, twice, enjoyed the flex of Evan’s muscles as he thrust into John’s fist. John stroked him faster, enjoying the water-slickness of the hot flesh against his palm. He remembered that wrist twist that had made a younger, sweeter Evan throw his head back and howl, so he added that at the end, catching the head of Evan’s cock just so, and Evan whined high and needy in the back of his throat, and he was losing control, losing it to John, and John stroked even faster, and Evan went sharply silent, mouth falling open, body rigid against John’s, and came, hot and sticky all over John’s hand. John dragged his fingers across Evan’s belly, through Evan’s come, felt Evan twitching with the aftershocks.  
  
John licked a stripe up the side of Evan’s throat, nibbled on his ear, and whispered, “On your hands and knees, Major.”  
  
Evan slid to the floor, practically boneless, and John knelt behind him, used Evan’s come as slick to ease one finger inside of him, then two. He prepped Evan carefully, heard Evan gasp and whimper when he crooked his fingers just so, hit that sweet spot inside of him.  
  
John was so hard, his blood so hot he felt like he was burning under his skin, and he draped himself over Evan’s back, the head of his cock nudging just between Evan’s thighs, and he whispered, “Ready?”  
  
“Preparedness is the key to air power, sir.”  
  
John’s first thrust was slow, careful, while he let Evan adjust around him, but then he started a slow, leisurely pace. He wanted to make this last, wanted to -  
  
Evan glanced over his shoulder. “That all you got, soldier?”  
  
The pure insolence in his voice made something inside John snap. He grasped Evan’s hips, hard enough to bruise, drew back slowly, and slammed back into him. Evan laughed, low and throaty, and John reached around him, stroked down his belly. He was hard again.  
  
“What are you, a teenager?” John demanded.  
  
Evan just laughed again, and John stroked his cock, and his laugh turned into a moan.  
  
John leaned over him again. “Just for that, I’m going to make you come from my cock alone.” And he began to thrust in earnest.  
  
Evan was better than he remembered, hot and tight and so responsive, moaning and gasping, hips flexing beautifully under John’s hands. John curled his fingers into Evan’s firm flesh, wanted to leave marks, leave bruises, and he leaned down to whisper in Evan’s ear.  
  
“You ready, Major? You gonna come for me?”  
  
Evan’s response was the delightfully disrespectful, “Fuck you, sir.”  
  
John nipped his ear and grinned against his throat, adjusted the angle of his hips just so, and thrust hard.  
  
Evan cried out, tightened around John’s cock, and came. John came seconds later, thrusting arrhythmically, and the two of them collapsed together, breathing hard. Because it was Atlantis, the water pouring down on them was still warm. John pulled out and rolled onto his back, and was stunned to see Evan heave himself to his feet. Finger-shaped bruises were already blossoming on his hips. Evan stepped under the water, tipped his head back, and cleaned himself off.  
  
John had barely made it back to his feet before Evan stepped out from under the spray, and it shut off. Evan wrapped a towel around his hips and said,  
  
“Don’t worry, sir, your secret’s safe with me.” And he was gone - overriding John’s lockdown with a mere thought.

John stared at the door and thought that for all he’d done the fucking, he was the one who was screwed.  
  
A couple of days later, he found himself in the command office, legs spread, Evan between his thighs and sucking his cock enthusiastically, and he remembered Dave had suggested, sneeringly, that Flanigan had brought Bluebell along because he was some kind of fucktoy for all the other men, and Father had said no, Bluebell was the kind of man you wanted to watch out for, who could do anything and find anything and be anything, and if he ever took over the Flanigan family, he’d be a force to be reckoned with. John knew he was playing with fire, but again, a couple of days after that, he and Evan were in one of the jumpers and he was in Evan’s lap, writhing on his cock while Evan licked his nipples, and the sex was so damn good that he knew he wouldn’t stop.


End file.
